Hot Shot
by TRIriana
Summary: The CSI's get more than they bargained for when a new serial killer starts to target women in Las Vegas.  But in a city were many women are at the top of their game in their jobs, they have their work cut out for them. GS.  Updated!
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: **Unfortunately nothing of CSI belongs to me. Damnit!

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**Teaser**

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Cars honked, motorcycles swerved through busy dual lane traffic, some hundreds of people paraded up and down the sidewalks. Most were tourists with their glazed eyes peering upward at the dazzling, multi storey, illuminated buildings; and purses or wallets full of cash to throw away in the casinos they were entranced by. A few were being daring, getting slam dunk drunk and then married by Elvis. Some fancy dressed folk were on their way to work: the strippers, exotic dancers, show girls, and streetwalkers. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the lone few who passed through this way to grab a drink before heading on home after a long, arduous day in the office. Their dark, almost drab black or navy suits looked somehow out of place among the gaudy finery and decadence.

But for the last few, as far as they were concerned, their working day was over and the comfortable, laidback atmosphere of home awaited them. They could kiss their kids goodnight, and talk about the day with their other halves. It was all normal, for some formulaic, but cosy all the same. They didn't expect anything to upset the finely tuned balance of their lives.

Occasionally though, people got more than they bargained for.

Sally Jones was as normal as her name. Her once glossy red hair had lost some of its shine at thirty-five and the hurried pace of her life meant it was always pulled back tightly off her face when she worked, giving her an almost stern appearance. Green eyes were disguised by clunky black glasses reminiscent of Clark Kent's, and her lips were set in a near constant thin line of determination. Determination she had needed in order to succeed in her job. Not yet approaching middle-age, but no longer living the fun life her friends did, it had been a necessary sacrifice to get her to the top. She was almost there as well, in two more years her boss would stand down and she would finally hold the long-coveted key position.

She very rarely had the opportunity to wind down, but on that Friday evening Sally decided to take a break from the usual monotony of her life. A couple of other things factored into the split second decision: she had to catch a cab after her car broke down on the way to work, and it was raining heavily, prompting a desperate need to seek a quick and temporary shelter.

The run for cover took her to the nearest casino, one of the smaller ones on the Strip. Relatively new, in comparison to the greats, its interior was dark but oozed warmth from its décor. The bar was bustling with people and, as she shrugged off her coat, she squeezed in between the revellers to get into the queue for a drink.

Sally found a seat in a quiet corner ten minutes later, and nursed her glass between her cold hands as she studied the fast growing crowd. She had so little time for introspection, and now that she did have some she wished her thoughts weren't so drab. To keep her mind occupied as she waited for her coat to dry out, she leafed through the work folders she had brought home and soon became lost in thoughts of pie charts and upcoming meetings.

She barely noticed the man who sat opposite her until he coughed gently. There wasn't anything remotely striking about him and, had her day ended with her being curled up in her bed as it always did, she would have quickly forgotten the upcoming conversation. But things did not go as planned for Sally Jones.

And no one would remember the ordinary guy who left with her.

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"I didn't see her, man, seriously. If I had I would say something, alright?" the harried bartender repeated the answer he had given to a couple of other cops, and swiped his hands through his hair with mounting frustration.

Brass' face was etched with disbelief, and he shook his head straight away. "Listen…Mikey, wasn't it?" he continued on without waiting for a response. "She's a pretty redhead, came in for a quiet drink and surveillance tells me that you're the one who took her order. It's right up there in technicolour." He aimed the pen he carried in the direction of the camera mounted on the wall.

While the footage was perfect for showing them everything that had gone on around the bar, it provided zero help in trying to zone in on the other parts of the room, which left witness statements only. A person's recollection could be hazy at best, especially with the passage of time – and a drunken person's memory was a waste.

"I see a lot of pretty redheads, but I only tend to remember the one's who hand me their number," the bartender retorted as he wiped down shot glasses. By now the bar was closed – thanks mostly to the cops swarming the area – and that meant he was missing out on the rest of a nights pay. "I've been working since 8pm, and its 2am now. That's a lot of hours of taking orders and checking out the sights," he motioned to a group of young women being interviewed across the room, and couldn't resist winking at the petite blonde.

Brass followed his gaze, his thoughts gearing up a peg or two. He narrowed his eyes at Mikey, and decided to put on a little bit of pressure. "So you must be a hot shot among the ladies, huh? Getting their numbers, chatting them up, flirting. Maybe taking one or two home. Sure you didn't do that tonight? Your co-workers said you were pretty long taking your break a few hours ago…" Letting the sentence hang in the smoky air, Brass waited to see if the bartender would get what he inferred.

Mikey did, and his eyes widened with a sudden onset of wariness. "I don't remember this woman; I didn't get her name or her number. And I **did not **take her anywhere."

"My line of work, I hear that a lot, slick. You won't mind if I don't believe you," Brass gave a cool smile. "Or if we finish this down at the station. To rule you out, you know how it goes."

His line of sight spanned the room, and he took in a particularly irritated looking lady nearby, trying to wheedle her way out of answering more questions. Brass sidled up to her and Officer Jackson, to take over the interrogation.

Checking out her finely manicured nails, the woman pinched down her tiny skirt a little bit more and cast a quick, uncertain eye around the room. Brass pegged her as a hooker after a quick once over and guessed why she wanted to get out. A prostitute in a room with a bunch of police was not a palatable scenario. While he doubted this woman had anything to do with his newest crime – or potential crime, a mistake having not been completely ruled out yet – she may still have seen something.

"I already told the other officer, I didn't see nothin'," she swore before Brass could get a word in.

He leafed through Jackson's sparse notes, and nodded absently. "Maybe, maybe not, but let's go through this again just in case." With a tone that brokered no chance for disagreement, Brass took up the line of questioning.

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By the time Grissom, Sara and Catherine arrived on the scene the rain had thankfully stopped. They could only hope that their new crime scene had been created during that time period too; the body had been found outside and if the downpour had been in process during the murder then all evidence could have been washed away. It was what a CSI dreaded in such weather. An inept criminal could still find him or herself waltzing free because of nature.

The street lamp provided the only light until others could be erected for them to see in the darkness; so they trod very carefully as they came to a stop next to the crime scene tape to observe the small space before them.

Grissom flashed his light over the arms and legs of the woman, and grimaced when he saw the body was indeed soaking wet. There was, potentially, little chance of evidence with the waters interference now. "Not again," he murmured underneath his breath, his voice so low the women on either side of him barely heard his comment.

Likewise from her position, Sara let her light gloss over the limbs. The body had been dumped with no care, and her arms and legs were laid askew. If she had worn a coat or jacket it was gone now, and the shirt beneath was drenched with rainwater. The stiff, high collar was bloodied though the wound beneath was partially covered by the white material. "Look at the marks on her arm," Sara pointed out.

The victim's shirt sleeves had been hastily rolled up, and her lower arms were littered with thin vertical cuts. The blood had been washed away by now, but it was obvious that they were fresh.

"No purse was found on her body, no bag nearby. If she did have a coat, ID might have been in that," Catherine commented.

"He never leaves any ID," Grissom pointed out grimly. "He likes this to be done the hard way."

Glancing across at her partner, Sara arched an eyebrow. "You think it's him again?" she questioned, knowing Grissom's old adage of assuming nothing all too well and surprised he would be so certain here.

Grissom turned to meet her gaze and answered quite simply. "I know it is."

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	2. Chapter 2

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"Brass called in," Grissom declared as he walked back to the crime scene. 

Their processing of the site, now determined to be the dumping area and not the scene of the murder itself, was almost complete. The body had been taken away by David some time ago, and either he or Al would be prepping for their part in the grisly job they did so well. It was nearing 4am and, though not quite daylight yet, shoots of light did allow the crouched CSI's to work more diligently.

"We have a possible ID on the victim. Turns out a missing persons report was issued last night by a George Jones. His wife didn't return home when she usually did and he started to worry when she didn't answer her cell," Grissom continued. "Brass gave a rough description, and it sounds like her. The husband is on his way to ID the body now."

Casting a critical eye across the scene again, Sara glanced up at Grissom a moment later. "We didn't find a cell, either she dropped it or he took that too."

Finding a slight discrepancy in what their supervisor had said; Catherine frowned in puzzlement. "The PD took the missing persons report after a few hours? What happened to waiting?"

"The Sheriff interfering is what happened," Grissom stated pointedly. "The Jones' are regular diners with him, and he pulled a few strings to speed the process up." Crouching down, he eyed the damp floor for anymore blood or fibres.

"He might have only waited a few hours, but he was still too late," Sara retorted solemnly. She stood and stretched, easing out the aches borne of being hunched over in the same position for way too long. "If there was any evidence that could've helped us here…" she swept her arm out to indicate the crime scene. "It was washed away by the rain. We found a couple of fibres but it looks like its going to match Mrs Jones' shirt. The blood is most likely hers too."

But of course they were going to run comparisons anyway – they wouldn't be some of the best in their chosen career if they simply gave up.

Grissom nodded his agreement, issuing the quick instruction of: "Get it back to the Lab. There's nothing more we can do here." Underneath the calm exterior as he went about his work, there was still frustration.

It was a frustration felt by all of them. "She's the fourth in as many months," Catherine commented with a shake of her head.

"Possibly the fifth," Grissom interjected. "Dayshift found a woman in similar circumstances two days ago…there are comparisons with the others. He's escalating."

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"Her throat was cut," Doc Robbins ascertained and aimed a finger at the deceased woman's neck. "He severed the jugular, probably using a knife with a serrated edge. There was nothing clean about this." He moved down across the body to motion to the marks on her arm. "These cuts are shallow. In my opinion…they were made solely to inflict pain before death. See here?" he directed Grissom's attention to one of the longest, stretching from elbow to shoulder. "He avoided the vein so she didn't bleed out." 

"Did you see the woman Days brought in?" Grissom asked as he stood back from the table. Al pulled the sheet half covering the woman, over her head.

"Our Jane Doe?" Al confirmed with a curt nod. "The last I heard, Ecklie was still trying to ID her. She's definitely another victim." The coroner grimaced in distaste as he added darkly: "Did you know the media was brainstorming to come up with a name for the killer?"

"It was going to happen sooner or later. It always does, this need to immortalise serial killers with a particular name," Grissom pointed out softly.

"Unfortunately people have a tendency to remember the killer, and not the victims that way." Robbins motioned to the prone, cold form beneath the sheet. "I saw the husband when he identified the body; he said she never had an enemy in her life. If the spouses and family of the other victims are to be believed, neither did they. All of them were highfliers, nearing the top of their careers --."

"Then maybe we're looking for someone who thinks they don't deserve it," Grissom supposed. He snapped off his slightly bloodied gloves, absently rolling them into a ball as he thought.

"There are a lot of successful women in the City, I can name a few in this Lab," Doc Robbins answered, feeling a peculiar sense of foreboding wash over him. Grissom felt it too, and he looked up sharply. "I hope someone catches him soon."

"We intend to," Grissom stated with resolve. He just wished it wasn't taking so long.

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"So Mikey, your boss tells me you don't tend to take too much time on your break. A quick smoke, a little flirting and you're back behind the bar again in no time…" Brass was relaxing back against a chair in one of the Interrogation rooms. His attention was focused directly on the young Lothario before him. He had waived his right to an attorney, telling the detective that there was no need because he was utterly innocent of any crime. "What was different this time?" 

Mikey shuffled in his seat, partly out of being uncomfortable under Brass' intense scrutiny and that of the police officer over in the corner. "Listen, most of the time I **am **pretty fast. But…" he hesitated, licking his lips before a quick, fleeting smile appeared. "Some things can't be rushed, you know?"

Leaning forward on the table, Brass shook his head. "No, I don't. Pretend I'm just some dumb guy and explain it to me," he suggested.

Rolling his eyes and sighing in irritation, Mikey's smile rapidly vanished. "Occasionally I make the most of my break time. My bar gets a lot of hookers. My apartment isn't that far away…look, if my boss found out I was screwing girls during working hours…he'd kick me out on my ass, and I can't afford to lose this job."

"But you can afford a hooker every now and then?" Brass caught the discrepancy.

Huffing, Mikey tapped his fingers on the table as he tired of being questioned. "We have a little deal going. I direct them to the high flying office workers; give them a free drink to loosen up their prospective clients and I get to take them back to my place at a discounted price. It's a bit of fun, you know? Guy-to-guy, you understand…?" He swallowed nervously, hoping to a God he hadn't prayed to since his pre-teen years that Brass wouldn't go running to his boss.

Ignoring the question, Brass pushed a pad and pen in Mikey's direction. "Name, number, and description of the woman you took home tonight."

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"You have no fucking right to treat me like this! I was walking home, got it? I wasn't doing nothing wrong!" 

She was a bottle blonde, as most tended to be who worked the corner around "Mikey's Bar", and she wore the same clothes Brass had seen on the young woman earlier that morning. Her green eyes scanned the hallways, trying to determine whether all the hookers were being brought in or if she was being singled out. Upon seeing no familiar faces, she determined it was the latter option that was most probable. And it set her off on another tantrum.

"I don't have a record, I haven't been picked up before --," she stopped dead in mid-rant as she set eyes on Mikey. The familiar man was walking quickly to the exit. "You son of a bitch! You were a **cop** Damnit!" Her voice echoed through the corridors, causing people to stop and stare – all that is, except Mikey, who wisely left the building without a break in his stride. She had it all wrong, of course, but she was panicking and not in her right frame of mind. She had heard all sorts of stories from women who were in the same line of work as she.

Brass grimaced when he spotted the bad-tempered, foul-mouthed blonde. "Just great," he mumbled under his breath before walking toward her and reaching out an arm to direct her to the room Mikey had recently vacated. "Come this way, Miss Lewis," he instructed. He doubted the name was her real one, but that was no real surprise.

"Oh man," she whined. "Not you again!" she marched into the room nonetheless and, as though she were a pro, stormed over to the other side of the room and parked herself in the hard chair. Tossing her gold bag on the table, she took out a cigarette and lit up whilst blatantly disregarding the No Smoking signs.

Sighing tiredly, Brass plucked it from her fingers and pressed it down against the table to stub out the light. "Smoking kills," he quipped before sitting down. She was younger than she seemed, beneath the thick blanket of make-up smoothed across her skin and deep red lipstick that gave a definite fake pout. She was seventeen going on thirty-seven, and Brass shook his head before getting down to business.

"You haven't been picked up for prostitution, Miss Lewis. I just need to ask you a few questions about old Mikey," Brass stated calmly after flicking on the tape beside his elbow.

"Why? The men of the LVPD need tips on positions?" she snarked. "Or is it just you, huh?" she leaned forward, eye lashes that were thick with black liner batting as she attempted to ooze charm.

Smiling with feigned sweetness, Brass responded. "If you want a nice, warm night behind bars then keep going, kiddo."

She gritted her teeth and slumped back in the chair with a look of marked disdain, like the youngster she still was. "Look, I'm tired and want to go home. What do you want?" she asked, defeated.

Thankful that her ridiculous bravado was over, Brass nodded. "How long were you at the bar?"

Pulling up the sleeve of her jacket to see her watch, the hooker checked the time. "Um, I got there at 8pm. Wait, no, about ten after. Some prick was harassing me outside for a little while. Mikey came outside and told him to beat it before taking me to one of the booths. I stayed there until he went on his break." She had no qualms about telling Brass what Mikey had done, particularly as she believed he had ratted her out to the police. "He took me back to his place and screwed around a few times, just until his break was over. We both went back to the bar. He promised me he'd point out the CO of some computer company, as payment." She grimaced at that. "But then the cops arrived and I didn't even get that far…Do you think Mikey had something to do with that missing woman, is that why he was here? Oh my God, did I just screw a killer?" Her eyes widened at the thought.

Chuckling under his breath, Brass eased her mind. "No, Mikey's in the clear." He was too much of an idiot to commit a crime and get away with it. "Tell me about this guy who was harassing you."

"Oh, I didn't get a good look at him. He was so damn tall, my neck hurt trying to see his face! He was kind of out of place. Aside from the girls, the bar usually get upper-class clients. Business men and stuff. This guy looked like a total loser, trying to be something he wasn't. He suit was a complete knock-off, and he was wearing **trainers**. He tried to hide 'em, but it was obvious. Anyway, he left when Mikey told him too and I only saw him one last time, getting a drink later on."

Nodding, and checking the tape was still running, Brass added: "Thank you for your time, Miss Lewis. Why don't you tell your…girls, to take a vacation for the next few weeks." He doubted prostitutes featured on this killers radar, but still…

She waved away his concerned with a scoffing laugh. "Honey, we're always fine," she stated before strutting out of the room, and away into the fading darkness.

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**A/N: **Hopefully I will be booting out chapters more often now! Hit the review button and let me know what you think. 


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